


Dialogues (Between One Mind, the Parasite and the Intruder)

by Puniyo



Series: Casting Shadows [5]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Emotional Conflict, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Mind Games, Past Relationships, Uncertain timeline, clothed sexual situation, crude language, heavy past baggage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-18 02:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21670684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puniyo/pseuds/Puniyo
Summary: ‘Didn’t you miss me? Just a little?’ The thumb draws abstract shapes along the vein of his arm, going deeper, penetrating the tight sleeve. He shudders, slightly, hoping the other man won’t notice (Javier does), and he yanks his limb away, no softness and courtesy in the action. ‘I missed you so much, my–’‘The game is over.’
Relationships: Javier Fernández/Yuzuru Hanyu
Series: Casting Shadows [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1001124
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	Dialogues (Between One Mind, the Parasite and the Intruder)

**Author's Note:**

> Dear all, this is a short bunny that came out to play and refused to get back to its burrow. A not so heavy theme but confusing dialogues are mixed in-between, so I apologize for them. There is a lot between the lines here and I will let you have your own interpretations as usual ;) 
> 
> I have a major plot in mind for this pairing so I hope I will have time for it. In the meanwhile, enjoy this.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. This is purely a product of my sleep-deprived mind. The timeline here might be distorted and it is just for the plot's sake.
> 
> Art for art's sake as well. *high fives*

It is September.

It is September, the month of sweeping dry leaves at the berms of the pavements that sandwiched between the stainless steel braces of bicycles wheels (and made the most skilled riders fall), the month with caramel toffee aroma every time he passed by the patisserie by the bus stop and the aftertaste of maple on his tongue from the biscuits his new neighbor (that he barely understood) gave him every Sunday after her Lutheran devotional.

It is September, the ninth month of the year. And ninth is a place that Yuzuru never wants to see himself in since he debuted more than a decade ago, mushroom haircut, spaghetti limbs and just a little boy with one hardened onigiri and half a seaweed leaf.

And so Yuzuru trains, a quarter to six (before the arrival of a new dawn), a split jump to warm the calves, two besti squats with change of edge for the hamstrings, and a triple Axel. It is the Axel. It is always the Axel that never betrays him, not like the tantrums from the Salchow and the prince(ly) temper from the Loop, not to mention the absenteeism from the Lutz.

_How long are we going to play like this, Yuzuru?_

He comes early today because he is tired. Yuzuru is tired of the harness and the ‘Three rotations are enough for today’, ‘We can try tomorrow’, and the ‘Have you have not had enough?! At least think about your ank–‘

And Yuzuru jumps (he flies instead), towards the ceiling, towards the never-stopping gyrating blades of the fans sprayed with tiny flags of the athletes there and the ventilation ducts.

_You know I like you the more you ignore me._

It is four and a half rotations. Lies. It is four and a fifth of a rotation when the pick hits the ice, the mark of the hook witnessing in a Mariana-trench-deep line on the rink that the jump is underrotated.

_Be nice, won’t you?_

Yuzuru lies on the gelid and uneven surface, his chest upheaving from recovering his breath as white puffs of air escape his lips in vapor clouds. He extends his arms and legs, the Vitruvian man of the (post)modern times, his own sweat soaking his black Under Armor together with the poodles of water from his body heat. It is cold, a shiver runs through his spine, and he clenches his eyes from the momentary blinding flash of the fluorescent tubes in the ceiling. The pain on his ankle is non-existent, ghostly, and yet he feels the muscle and the tendons twitching, a phantom lever pulling his joint.

_It’s nothing, Yuzuru. Don’t think about it. You are fine._

_Fine, yes. Mighty fine. We are the king of the world, aren’t we? Otoñal and Origin, the end and rebirth of the seed of faith. A round of applause for you, Yuzuru. One applause and three bows, my liege._

Yuzuru takes a deep breath, trying to bury the voice. He hopes it will go away.

It does not.

How naïve of him.

_My Yuzuru, my servant and king, my brother and friend, my cradle and my tomb, how long are you going to be like this? How long are we going to suffer? You and I, me and you, in this body that wants but doesn’t take – is this what you really want?_

_Stop. Stop your filthy thoughts._

_Stop? Ha! What is this? A bland steak because there is no salt? This is flesh and all flesh wants to be touched. By me, by you, by him. And him. And him._

Yuzuru hears faint steps in the direction of the lockers. He quickly stands up, the frigidness finally settling into his skin and he shrugs off a sneeze. He picks up his Pooh-covered towel, the same yellow and orange bear tissue case, and he steps off the rink, the usual salutation forgotten.

_And him._

212.99 points.

A new record and a new personal best.

He stares at the scoring board on the big screen, the numbers memorized in a glimpse. The crowd cheers (a euphemism of the actual screams and incoherent yells), the rain of stuffed toys is never-ending, and he jumps, euphoria bursting through his chest, fist up, the enthusiasm of all of those that came colliding with his own frenzied fever. He too replies in ‘arigatou’ and ‘thank you’, because gratitude belongs to all languages and is never fully expressed in any, and he tries to wave to the left, the kind aunties that have followed him with hand-made banners of purple and crystalline blue, to the center, the novice boys who think they had probably entered a forest of miniature, charming mammals. To the right, he turns, and he feels himself paralyzing. To the row of judges, hello and fuck them all, but there is a man in a blue suit (he thinks it is blue but one can never be certain under these industrial halogen and argon lights). Just a small figure, tie and backstage pass, clapping in unison with the rest of the crowd.

It is him.

_You want to be touched. By him._

‘Why?’

_Because you want to see him._

‘Why?’

_Because he is the only one that can–_

‘Yuzuru?’ Ghislain notices the slightly demure of his shoulders and he pats the feathered back, the zipper masked by the rhinestones. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Yes.’ He smiles, sincere in its intent, fake in its execution. He grabs the transparent bottle, pink liquid bouncing off the plastic walls. The sweet electrolyte solution, grape and strawberry at the first taste, turns bitter as it runs down his throat. ‘Let’s go back. Nam will skate soon.’

_Run. Run to him. Or he will run to you._

‘Yuzuru! Yuzuru!’ The young boy almost trips on the loose strings of the dirty, blue off-limits carpet to the normal spectator, his panting eagerness overcoming inclusively his coach running behind him, in the same breathlessness, not from a free program but from the restraining puffer parka. ‘Did you watch my performance?’

He is almost a grown-up poodle, tail wagging, pining for a smoked, roasted turkey leg (bone).

‘Nam Nam,’ that is how he always called him since the days at Toronto Cricket Club (Nyugen never really rolled past his stiff tongue), ‘you’re taller again. Your legs will become _pommes frites_ if you keep jumping the quad Sal.’

‘Are you proud of me?’

He wipes a drop of sweat from the Canadian’s chin. ‘I’m always proud of you.’ Even before he is aware of, the younger boy has him enveloped in his arms, the Japanese flag of his jacket against the crimson leaf. It feels like a greeting and a goodbye at the same time, the welcoming of a younger brother and the parting of an old acquaintance. ‘Your triple Axel, though.’

‘That’s not fair.’

Don’t turn back, Yuzuru.

_Do turn back, Yuzuru._

Nam’s grasp is released as quick as his attention is diverted, his bouncing canine energy switched to the arrival of the lisping, rough voice.

‘That is not fair, is it, _Yuzu_?’

Don’t turn around, Yuzuru.

_Knock, knock, who is it? It’s the grandmother pretending to be the wolf._

‘Javier!’ The name resonates in his ears like asynchronous cymbal chimes, out of tune with the entire orchestra. ‘I didn’t know you were here too!’

His hands clench into fists, fingernails digging into the lines of his palm, and he refuses to change his posture and his standing stance.

‘How could I ever miss this competition? It is just like the good old times.’

Honey syrup dripping on corrupting venom. How many times has he been poisoned?

_As many as you can. Adulterate and cure, fester and clean._

‘Like the good old ti–’, the young Canadian has not yet finished his speech when his coach pulls him away (apologizing in the meanwhile) to face his media duties as the majestic home silver medalist. There is a pout on his face as he is dragged along the corridor and exaggerated waving of arms. Yuzuru is silent, unable to return the same gesture. He takes a step forward, feigning not knowing the looming figure behind him, his mind begging to whatever deity that wasn’t asleep at the moment to grant him an escape.

It is midnight in the heavens though.

‘Yuzuru…’, the hand that wraps around his wrist is warm, it burns a circle around his skin, the fire hooking on his pulse and obliging a sprint for rhythm, ‘… just like the good old times.’

_Knock, knock, who is it? It is the joker waiting for you in bed._

‘There are no good old times.’

‘Didn’t you miss me? Just a little?’ The thumb draws abstract shapes along the vein of his arm, going deeper, penetrating the tight sleeve. He shudders, slightly, hoping the other man won’t notice (Javier does), and he yanks his limb away, no softness and courtesy in the action. ‘I missed you so much, my–’

‘The game is over.’

And Yuzuru walks away. One step, two steps, three strides, as fast as his skates allow him, without ever looking back. The Spaniard’s face is but a specter, vanishing into the depths of his brain.

_It is not over._

‘I know where to find you, Yuzuru.’

It is eight days, twenty-two hours, thirty-seven minutes and nine seconds to the NHK tournament and Yuzuru is back to the rink, alone, lights dim so the evening patrol guard won’t suspect of his staying after the regular (allowed) opening schedule. It is the second time he falls on a quad Toe Loop and he punches the ice, the exact same spot where his blade failed to secure him a rule-compliant landing.

_Can’t stop thinking about him, can you?_

He shakes his head, the chants of negation growing louder and louder in the silence of his own shadow.

_Then what is this?_

This, the bulging pressure on his crotch, are the punctual promises of one night of fun by those muddled by the ecstasy on the five-star presidential suites, on the leather seats of fancy hybrid cars, on the terraces of private properties deprived from the bustling cosmopolitan lights. These are marks, prints, smears, bruises of games he devised and dismantled once they got bored.

Those were nothing but vials of elixir to quench the hunger of his flesh. Because they all want him. They wall want a piece to gnaw to the bones and still devouring more.

Because they were all…

The flicker of the digital clock hung high on the wall in front of him, now blinking in its reset state, wakes him from the trance, the succession of zeros in vivid red in the dark background changing suddenly to a few tiny words, each character appearing in an interval of a couple of seconds.

DID… YOU… MISS… ME… MY…

The astringency of leftover bile stings his palate and he clutches his stomach, nauseating panic accruing on his navel. He looks around, keen eyes looking for his hunter, to the sides, to the rows of benches, the boards by the rink, the beams on the ceiling. There is nothing except for a twig nest on the northeastern corner and the grotesque yellow spot left by the mold-diluting detergent.

_Knock, knock, who it is? It is him, Yuzuru, and you are already inside his trap._

He stands up, agile and nimble, cat reflexes on a human silhouette, adrenaline fueling his fear, and fear feeding his latent arousal. He runs, out, out of the rink, feet on hard concrete floor, to the shower rooms, to the changing partition where he borrowed a locker. The door closes with a loud thud and he pushes the middle button on the knob, locking it.

It is then that Yuzuru is pressed against the hideous olive green surface, hand still on the metallic latch, a forehead resting on the curve of his shoulder blade, nudging slowly to the center, to the hills and valleys of his vertebra.

The place where he had cut his own wings.

‘Did you miss me, my Yuzu?’

He gasps when a pair of pointy canines sink into the fabric of his training gear until they meets his skin. The intake of air is so hasty, glass shattering in veining marble floor, that the oxygen is lodged on his throat and it refuses to either go up or down.

_I did._

‘I missed you so much.’

‘Liar.’ The more he tries to control the roots of all his nerves, the more obvious is the trembling of his frail, angel-like silhouette. ‘Fuck you, Javi–’

The finger dip inside the elastic waistband of his (tight) pants, to the (even tighter) dance belt, nails scratching the plump flesh of his butt. ‘Shss.’ The sweltering breath hits the sensitive spot behind his ears, a lullaby from pandemonium, as the digits teasingly tiptoes his entrance.

He will be eaten alive, a persimmon plucked from a tree before it matures.

Oh, how much he (they) have missed this.

_Take me, take you. Do me as you did on the bench, I’ll do you as I did in the shower. Fuck me, fuck you._

He tries to turn but the hands now secure his hips on the same invisible axis. He is taller with the skates, laces untied and blades unprotected. Yet, the difference in height is just the best angle for Javier to propel himself in forward thrusts, his (fully) hardened manhood impaling the rift of his apricot, brushing, skimming, the friction of their clothes intensifying the mental images sponsored by their lust.

‘If only you would let me in, Yuzu.’

He shakes his head, drops of sweat at the tip of his fringe, lips bruised from the stronghold of his teeth to forbid any sound. He keeps the pendulum motion of no concession, but instincts are stronger than reason, and all men are beasts. He too leans back, giving more area for the feverish touch, the grunts and unrestrained moans from the Spaniard, the lisps of his name, the velvety tone of Javier’s voice that only he can provoke, the broken high-pitched timbre as he is on the verge, is the best gold medal he will ever receive and the burdened cross he carries for this lifetime.

The wind rises as swift as the storm passes.

Yuzuru tastes his own blood, leaking red on pink, metallic iron on his tongue, as the other man comes with one last sharp plunge, the slender contour of his hands sinking until the marrow of his bones.

There is also a syrupy, wet stain on the front of his pants.

_If only you were less stubborn._

‘You are mine again, Yuzuru. Not theirs.’ A tongue laps on his earlobe, the scent of cheap tobacco blended with sex. ‘Only mine.’

It takes less than a second for the young skater to flip their positions, an urge of strength on his tights pumped to his forearms as he pins Javier to the door with brutish tenacity. The impact of the head on the wood echoes throughout the room he thinks he might have cracked the skull, but the Spaniard laughs, pretentious and insolent, the shape of his mouth not masking his expectation of the reversal of roles.

Yuzuru hasn’t seen him this close since…

_You see him all the time in your dreams. In the reel of your torrid affair caught by all the cameras._

The hair, wavy during dry breeze and complete curls now with a humidity of their combined heat, the shade of brown between hazelnut and almond of his eyes, the stub and prickly unshaved cheeks neglected for just a few days, the tiny crease on the bridge of the nose and one at each side of his temples, the tip of his tongue lavishly tracing his lips – Javier has not changed at all.

He hated him so much.

_You have never loved anyone else._

‘I am sorry, Yuzuru.’

It is automatic and robotic when both his hands rise to the bobbing Adam’s apple, all ten of his fingers holding and clutching the neck, skin and muscle, sturdier until it narrowed to the cartilage. He pressures still, each gulp of the Spaniard felt on his palm, each swallow down his trachea, and he wants to crush the windpipe. Break it, for the times he was broken, but his hands tremble and his vision blurs with the tears flooding his gaze and threatening to spill.

‘I love it when you cry, Yuzuru.’

He releases the tenure, Javier coughing for air before the smirk is restored to his features.

It is almost a whisper when he speaks as he leaves the room. ‘Don’t ever touch me again.’

The loud laughter still resonates in the halls, in the rink, in the depths of his mind, once he steps out of the training premises.

_You know you can’t escape Yuzuru. Play with me. That’s what I love._

_That’s what you love._


End file.
